


I Walk The Line

by TheSweetestThing



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Wild West AU, outlaw oberyn, suspicious sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:58:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4829942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/pseuds/TheSweetestThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s a girl like you doing here?”<br/>“I want you to kill my Father’s murderer.” Oberyn lifts one heavy dark eyebrow upwards, and tense seconds tick by. Sweat drips down her collar, lungs tight and it seems like an eternity passes before Oberyn nods, a sharp nod of the head.<br/>"Then you better come inside."</p><p>Wild West AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking this story will be around 4/5 chapters long? I honestly don't know when the chapters will be posted as I start university again in a week so I'll be a lot busier but when I do post they'll be long chapters.
> 
> Song title from I Walk the Line by Halsey. 
> 
> I know nothing of the Wild West aside from films and a lot of google searches; this was mostly inspired by True Grit tbh so if anything isn't accurate or you see any mistakes feel free to correct me! Hope you enjoy x

Sansa's bed is old and long retired from service, the wood slats digging into her back as she tosses and turns, but she knows she is lucky to have even this.

The plump feather pillows and warm blankets that she curls up with are a luxury, and Sansa burrows into her nest at night listening to the faint moans and groans of patrons and workers alike next door and dreams of the day she can escape. Petyr Baelish had offered his own private quarters to share that very day her old house burnt and Sansa had politely, hesitantly accepted - she is half afraid she'll wake one morning to his body beside hers, and has gotten into a habit of asking one of the girls, Jeyne to sleep with her. He has not asked for any payment so far, but Sansa can see the increasing hunger in his eyes as she serves him dinner and pours his brandy and entices customers into his brothel in servitude, and he would not give her everything he has for nothing. Men always want something from a woman, Sansa knows that well. Even as she sits behind large mahogany desks with her dress trailing to the floor completely covering her legs and small hands clasped together in her lap, men she attempts to settle money with are brusque and inappropriate in their treatment towards her. Practically salivating at the mouth with little semblance of control as they simultaneously degrade and compliment her for being a 'little lady' trying to meddle in things she doesn't understand and it disgusts her, men disgust her now, as hard as she tries to forget.

As if she could ever forget.

* * *

Sansa sits waning in the harsh unmerciful Southern sun, her lips cracked and mouth dry. Her arms are marred with endless insect bites, dry hair dripping in front of her face offering only a silver of welcome shade from the blazing sun. The air is so thick here she thought when she first arrived she was going to suffocate. She still believes that sometimes; this place is unforgiving and brings only death to people like her.

They were outsiders from the start. When Eddard Stark relocated his family from the ever snowing wilderness up North to the dusty South with its sun baked land he had had hopes of grander things, of expanding the business he’d set up North with struggling childhood friends he sought to help and reconnect with. All it bought him was death, his and every soul he loved aside from Sansa, who slowly grows more disillusioned with every day, and she knows, everyone knows within time Petyr Baelish will have his way with her and then every man after. Sansa slowly drags in a breath, feeling her withered lungs creak within her chest. She could so easily give into the pressing grief that aches every time she parts her lips, but her Father would want her to live, her brothers would want to get their revenge, and Sansa is nothing if not dutiful. Spineless perhaps, but dutiful. She could have done something, when flames licked the woodwork of her home, when the dark shadows of her once true love and his Uncle fled into the night on horseback, but her feet were stuck solid to the ground, eyes streaming and windpipe crushed. They burned there all of them, and even though the authorities assure Sansa their passing would have been swift Sansa knows otherwise. She knows, she felt herself as she watched the uncomfortable heat on her cheeks even from her distance, and the thick acrid smoke in the air left her hacking for days, and she was the only one not trapped in there. Sansa is sure she saw shadows flickering in the flames, and it haunts her every second that Robb or Mother or little Rickon could have seen her motionless not even attempting to help, mute and eyes wide reflecting their torture. Their funeral pyre, and Sansa shivers despite the midday heat.

Ladies stare at her as they go past, noses crinkling like she is an animal, a beast, not a lady like them, and Sansa wonders how the girls in the brothel can be immune to it all. Once Sansa had dreamed of being the finest belle in society, and with her good lucks, charms and sensibilities a cluster of suitors would bid for her hand, she was sure. But there had only been one, and it had ended in nothing but death, and Sansa would never make that mistake again. Let her be judged, for the girls walking past knew _of_ her but not _about_ her. They knew nothing about how she woke every morning with her face nestled in hair hoping that today would not be the day she had outstayed her welcome and her services were required, fearing that the soft breathing beside her was not sweet Jeyne's but Petyr's instead, that she had books to sort and money owed that she didn't understand.

Sansa sits placidly as an hour or two slips by, sloped against railings; the faded sand-bleached wood digs into the flesh of her left hip and she rolls her weight onto her other side accordingly. Today is a terrible day in a cluster of bad weeks, when she can concentrate on nothing but her own misery and self-loathing, and a tiny part of her that shrieks internally at her family for leaving her here alone to struggle through with situations she has no idea how to handle. Anger, and then the grieving comes, slamming into her middle so she is rendered incapable of motion or thought, only seeing red curls and smiles and soft hands that were all gone now, all left to never return. Every once in a while a man will stumble up the steps of the brothel, leering down at her where she sits perched, with eyebrows that insinuate they're willing and Sansa shoots them a disgusted look as they sway past her and through the door. The brothel is the best in the county, according to Petyr, and Sansa has no reason to doubt him considering that before he took her under his wing she'd never even looked in the direction of a whore-house.

How situations change, and Sansa later finds it ironic that that's the thought running through her mind when he arrives. A lone rider swirling in a dust cloud atop a huge stallion, drawing the attention of every person in the street and causing them to pause in intrigue of the unknown. Dust obscures the figure as his mount snorts and tosses his head, reins jangling. Sansa can barely catch a glimpse as he passes even as she stands up to view him better, vision swimming from the abrupt movement after the hours of stillness, dress swirling around her feet puffy and tight in her shoes from the sweltering heat. She cranes her neck, spying flowing black hair, a waistcoat stained and collar spotted with what looked like flecks of blood, and does she imagine a laugh on the breeze?

* * *

Oberyn Martell, that was his name.

"The Red Viper." Jeyne tells her that night, breath warm on Sansa's cheek, big brown eyes filled with fear. "They say he's wanted for half a dozen deaths. He poisons people, pours stuff into their drinks and meals and watches them die."

"How is he not arrested then?" Sansa frowns, eyebrows pulling together as she curls in closer to her friend, tugging the blanket up higher from her feet to her chest.

"They can't prove it's him. They don't have any evidence - yet." Her eyelashes flutter, her face flickering from the candlelight and showing every minute expression of fear. "He could kill anyone here and nobody would ever know. He'll leave and someone will be struck with a stomach pain and they'll die within days, you'll see. And he'll be long gone."

"That may just be coincidence." Sansa argues weakly, but Jeyne shakes her head, brown locks rippling down her back masking the scars. Her nightgown is a loose, almost see-through thing, and Sansa can see the criss-cross pattern on her friend's skin as she shifts restlessly beside her.

"It's too many times for that." Jeyne insists.

"He kills people, and leaves no evidence." Sansa repeats and Jeyne nods, shuddering. Her teeth scrape her bottom lip, and her sharp elbows jostle Sansa as she snuggles in closer to her and the blanket. There's an ugly bruise forming on Jeyne's forearm and Sansa turns to look at her friend, who's closed her eyes and tucked the blanket up to her chin.

"Jeyne." Sansa whispers, fingers gently reaching out. When they brush the cool skin of her arm Jeyne flinches away from her, eyes flying wide open startled and Sansa stares at her painfully. Her friend blinks rapidly, fine eyelashes trembling.

"I'm fine." She says hoarsely, turning away and muffling her voice in the threadbare pillows.

"Was it him again?" Jeyne nods and Sansa's heart aches. The pair fall into an uneasy silence, and Sansa reaches over to blow out the last candle before rolling onto her back. Jeyne sucks in a breath beside her, quivering on the verge of tears she won't let fall, and Sansa slowly entwines her fingers with Jeyne's and squeezes. Jeyne's fingers are loose within hers, limp and almost lifeless but Sansa doesn't pull away and merely tightens her grip.

"Maybe the Red Viper will kill Ramsay." Sansa whispers, tone thick with false cheer. Jeyne's voice cracks on a sob, and Sansa closes her eyes to the sound of distant groans and grunts, the faint wisp of smoke from the last candle haunting her as she falls into nightmares of burning, blistered bodies.

* * *

She stands for a minute staring at the wooden shack Oberyn Martell supposedly stayed the night, according to Alayala who told Chataya who told Dancy who told Jeyne who whispered it to Sansa that morning with eyes as wide as saucers. The wooden shack has stood vacant for a while, and Sansa has no idea who it even belongs to. Oberyn Martell has spent the night here though, and she plucks up all the scant courage in her brittle bones and saunters up to the front porch, fingers curled tight into her dress as her boots take slow precise steps across the dusty earth.

“What’s a girl like you doing here?” The drawl made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck bristle and Sansa knows in that instant that she is mad. She’s gone crazy -

She turns around, drawing herself up to her full height, staring at him with all the confidence she can muster. He's a few feet behind her, and it unnerves her how he crept up on her without her realising. She has to squint to get a good look at him, how he is bathed in golden burnt amber from the early morning sun. It turns the harsh edges of his silhouette softer, even while he chews on tobacco, a large hat covering half his face in shadow with only the grizzled stubble on his chin clear. His fingers are looped through the belt buckles around his hip, one thumb caressing the handle of a shotgun that catches the light. Sansa swallows thickly, clammy fingers clumsily clasping together.

“I want you to kill my Father’s murderer.” Oberyn lifts one heavy dark eyebrow upwards, and tense seconds tick by. Sweat drips down her collar, lungs tight and it seems like an eternity passes before Oberyn nods, a sharp nod of the head.

"Then you better come inside." Oberyn wanders a step forward, the wood creaking beneath them, and invites Sansa inside with a sideways nod of the head.

He watches her as she brushes past him, and he smells of whisky and horses, tobacco and sweat, and by the time their eyes connect for a long wavering second - bright sky blue to dark black stone she's already half in love - if she fell in love, which she doesn't. Not anymore. Never again.

She lifts her sweeping skirts up to avoid the dust on the floor as she pulls back a rackety chair and slowly sits down. Her poor cornflower blue dress has never caught the eye more, the room is so sparsely decorated; Sansa has never been in a room so plain. Nothing but wood, the floor, the walls, the table she sits at, all different shades and in various stages of disrepair. Never has she seen a room so bare, no signs of personal belongings nor a sense of home, of coziness and safety. A long counter is at one side with a wash bucket and a few pieces of clothing strewn atop, still drying and half damp. Waistcoats and breeches and undergarments and Sansa’s cheeks warm. Her fingers thread together nervously while Oberyn shuts the door behind her and slowly ambles to join her at the table. The remains of his breakfast still sit before them, crumbs of bread and crooked cutlery that had lost its shine and a scattering of papers Sansa pointedly looks away from. She only hopes Oberyn is a great deal quicker with his crimes then he is now, tilting the rim of his hat back to examine her face without a word.

She sucks in a breath and straightens her shoulders, angling her chin at him; Sansa Stark is not the type to waste a man's time. Especially not one with a pretty face, and Oberyn Martell sure is pretty. With his glittering eyes and wild hair and the stubble on the chin he rubs in thought, he's rugged and handsome and practically embodies the essence of an outlaw, a man who enjoys wild experiences and most likely causes many more. A reckless man, a dangerous man, but right now he only regards her like the men she tries to make buisness with. Speculation, intense appraisal, and Sansa pushes her chest out and her stomach in. She is a lady with no family or future, and she needs him. She isn't one to pin hopes anymore, but if she did it would be on him. He's her last chance to escape this place with the ever-lingering Petyr, the place where her ghosts are around every corner. She needs him. She needs him to kill the people she cannot, and maybe then she can finally find peace. Oberyn finally removes his hat, running a hand through his hair that shines glossy black flecked with liquid silver. She could get her fingers stuck in that mane, slowly dragging her fingers through the silky strands, and he hangs the hat on the corner of his chair keeping his eyes on hers as he opens his waistcoat and takes out the gun that hides there. He places it on the table and removes the one hanging on his hip too, and Sansa stares down at the objects, battered and tarnished and obviously well used.

"You say you want me to kill your Father's murderer?" He says slowly. His voice is low, measured, and she knows even as she observes him he is doing the same in turn. She wonders what he sees; a young woman in a charity dress that's fraying at the edges, eyes weary and hair limp.

"My name is Sansa Stark. My brothers are no longer alive to do the deed.” Sansa tells him, choosing her words carefully. “None of my family are. I take no pleasure in it but… their murderers should not be allowed to inflict their damage on more people.” She frowns at the thought, of all the others who could experience the pain she has been inflicted with. She is a blossoming woman, well enough to do alright by herself with her own wits, but what of children? What if a child, someone like Rickon's age have lost all the people they can call their own, lost the place they feel safe? She has to do this, for them as much as her family.

"I haven't much money but I'm working on it." She continues. "Investors are being... disagreeable with me."

He nods, a small sound of acknowledgement slipping through his lips. "You need help with that?"

Her eyes flick from his mouth to meet his gaze. Startled, because she wants to hire him for murder not other affairs. For a brief moment she imagines him shooting down every man who's looked down and belittled her and tried to take more than their shares of the company, or dropped out because they could not bear to be ruled by a woman, and she shakes her head before she can say yes. She has to figure out in her own way how to handle things. 

"Do you have a price?" Sansa inquires, and barely has she the words out before he laughs. A loud lazy laugh, rich with mockery that makes her jump, a flush rising up her neck. She adjusts her lace collar embarrassed, fingers fumbling and slipping as he leans back in his chair and lifts his lips up into a feral grin.

"You think I get paid to kill?"

"Isn't that what outlaws do?" Sansa says, cheeks hot. "They kill and pay themselves back with treasures."

Like her Mother's jewellery box Sansa is sure was stolen before the house was set ablaze, and Sansa's heart twists at the thought that Joffrey's next lover could be wearing her Mother's prized rings and necklaces. It was a common occurrence for criminals to loot the places they desecrated after all.

"And I have no jewels, only a small fortune if the banks see fit to compensate me. Your type never do anything for free."

 _I have my body_ , Sansa could say, but she will never dare. This man is dangerous, and Sansa is so very weary of men she wants only to go back to the mountains she grew up with and splash in the chilly azure waters with her friend Jeyne and giggle carelessly, go hiking in the snow-topped mountains with nobody to disturb them, huddle by the fire with hot drinks clasped in numb hands smelling only of the bitter freshness outside as snowflakes melt on stuck together eyelashes. Where are the men like her Father, who was honourable and good? Even when it brought him his death, he fought to the end to protect her. Every man she encounters now has an ulterior motive, is rude or lies and tries to bewitch and sway her. She can trust no-one but herself.

"What's his name?" Oberyn asks, propping his chin up with the knuckle of his hand, the worn sleeve of his jacket rubbing on the table top. His fingernails are grimy with dirt, long but somehow elegant fingers calloused, and he looks poised to remember everything of significance. "This man who killed your Father. Do you know him, or does he have any distinguishing characteristics or traits?"

Sickness swirls in her stomach as her lips part. She’s never said the words aloud, not since the fire that is the whole reason she’s sat here, splinters from the chair digging into her clenched thighs. "Joffrey Baratheon. But you need to kill his Uncle too, Jaime Lannister. He killed the rest of my family. Do you know of them?"

"Yes."

Not much of a surprise that an outlaw of his repute had heard of the golden family. The Lannisters had become the richest family in the South after the Gold Rush. They had founded themselves off the back of pure luck in the shaking of pans at river edges, and kept their riches through treachery and deceit, blackmail and murder.

"I have heard they went to-"

"I know where they are."

"Oh." She inhales sharply. It can be direct then, a quick hit, and she can be out and away from this place before it sucks her under its burning soil too.

"I know where they were." Oberyn amends. "But it was a few weeks ago now. They'll probably have moved on."

"Surely it can't take that long?" Sansa asks, envisioning months of endless heat and riding and dust before him. Gunfights and attacks and she has heard of men being scalped- Her hand flutters to her own hair anxiously, lip twisting in distress. If it takes months, who's to say she will even be Sansa then? She may be Petyr's bedwarmer, reduced to nothing but whatever coin is pressed into her hand. What if he never returns and she’s left here waning in the desert, a ghost in all but name?

"It takes as long as it takes."

She leans forward anxiously, corset digging into her ribs as she presses against the harshly cut edge of the table. "Please try your hardest to have it done quickly."

"You in a rush?"

She nods. "I have... situations." She says hesitantly. "They aren't ideal." She straightens up and takes a breath. "When will you set off?"

"How do you know I'll do it? Might be I have another contract killin' right here in this town."

Sansa sniffs before she can help herself, thinking of Jeyne and Ramsay, the man who leaves her covered in bruises and terrified, sobbing herself to sleep. "I should think so with the inhabitants."

He chuckles, shaking his head at her. He may be a murderer, but he has a contagious sense of vitality. It inhabits every inch of him, the way his foot cannot resist tapping ever so slightly in anticipation to be off and away.

"I can give you a list." She says, utterly serious.

"I can give you what you want." He replies with an easy shrug, dragging his guns across the table to pocket them. Tucked away, winked out of existence around the hip of his low slung jeans stiff and discoloured with mud.

"Is it true?" She asks, lips pressing together. "Will you give me what you want?"

"Anything." He tells her, and his onyx eyes meet hers, unafraid of commitment. "I aim to please."

"So you don't have any killings here? You can set out as soon as possible?"

"Yes."

"Good." She sighs with relief, crumpling in on herself ignoring the stab of the corset in her sternum. "Then we shall work out payment when you return."

She gathers her skirts and sweeps up out of her chair and across the room in a swirl of blue, and she's at the door before Oberyn's hand clamps down on her wrist.

They both freeze, and Oberyn stares at the small knife millimetres from his hand with approval. His hot fingers are loose around her thin wrist, so easily snappable, and Sansa clenches her knife tighter with a trembling hand, because did he think her a stupid girl? She had been stripped of her stupidity, her life, the moment her family turned into a bonfire and Sansa will never trust a man again, especially not an outlaw in the confines of a closed room with just herself around.

“Come with me, and I'll do the job for free.” He propositions, voice low and sending shivers down her spine, a heat rushing to her cheeks as his dark eyes bore into hers. “I’m not giving you justice if you’re unable to see it. How do you know I’ll not ride off with your money and never give you what you desire?”

“You’re an outlaw.” She says coolly. “Where’s the glory in fleeing from a fight?”

“Touché. ” He says, with a slow shake of the head and a quicksilver smile. “You’re smart.”

She eyes him suspiciously, her knife glinting in the buttered glow of sunlight shining between half rotten wooden window slats, the hilt digging into the soft flesh of her palm. Men only compliment her when they want something, either her body or account books, but when he speaks no more and moves not a muscle she rolls her shoulders and steps back, spine pressed against the door frame.

“So we have a deal?” She prompts uncertainly, slowly rubbing the base of her thumb across the tip of her knife. It's too dull. She hasn't sharpened it once since she stole it from Petyr the first night she arrived at his 'home'.

He nods, jaw tight. “If you ride with me.”

She stares up at him, chapped lips parting softly in disbelief. He wants her to ride with him across the Great Plains, into danger and destruction and more death? Her Father always said that to take a life you must at least have the honour to look your victim in the eye as they die, so Sansa breathes in a thin sliver of breath through her nose and nods.

“Alright.”

* * *

They set off that morning not an hour later, delaying only so Sansa could sneak a quick goodbye to Jeyne and a promise she would be back soon, grab a small bag of food supplies. The main street is bustling, eager eyes watching as Sansa folds her arms around Jeyne, her lips at the crook of her neck.

"I have to do this."

"Do you?" Jeyne bites her lip, shuffling from one foot to the other and staring at Oberyn uneasily.

"I'll be alright." She whispers. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve." One in truth, and a feeble one at that. Oberyn knew of the knife now, although he doesn't know she hasn't any other weapons at her advantage so maybe the initial surprise will make him suspect she had more and leave her be. "And when I come back, things will be better."

“What about Petyr? What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him…” Sansa pauses, trying to think of the right words for the man with the ugly eyes who took her in only to lure him to his bed. “Tell him I go to seek retribution.”

Jeyne nods, dark hair flopping into her eyes as hands fumble to clutch her fingers tight. "Stay safe."

"I can't promise that." Sansa admits, fingers toying with the lace cuff around her left wrist. Her dress is a thin thing with a low collar that quivers on her breasts every time she breathes, and with the added petticoat underneath she's already too hot for the day ahead. The full skirts swish around her as she steps back from Jeyne and turns to her horse.

Sansa makes sure to feel the cold bite of her knife against the sticky flesh of her wrist as she awkwardly mounts the horse. She is stingy with her money now, her families money, and she bought the cheapest horse Oberyn decreed would be hardy enough. Not that there's much choice in this small town anyway, but the horse will serve her well. If not she will merely have to ride double with Oberyn, and the prospect of that both intrigues and terrifies her. Her body pressed against his, his breath ruffling the sensitive hairs on the nape of her neck and she shivers. Sansa knows if Oberyn ever dares try to put his hand on her body again without her express wish she will strike back faster than he. Hasn't she already after all? She had seen the surprise in his eyes when he had narrowly escaped the edge of her knife. She can't be slow, she simply can't. Her jaw clenches as she recalls the way her Father had been too slow and fallen to the ground, his skull cracking and his brain she could never quite work out glistening in the sun- She swallows thickly, acid in the back of her throat as she nudges her mount forwards and away from town without a second look.

The first hour passes with silence aside from the slight humming from Oberyn ahead. He is constantly swigging from the canteen hung near his hip, and Sansa Stark is no fool. She loosens her reins and settles deeper into her saddle; her thighs are already beginning to ache and they've barely passed the scenery Sansa had come to know well.

“If you get drunk you’re of no use to anyone.” Sansa cannot resist saying, staring out at the landscape around them.

Almost motionless now, with only the recent tracks of an animal (a wolf?) around them and the wavering dots of what was most likely a cowboy and his cattle on the east horizon. A prairie dog scurries out of their path and under the brush around them that looks less than healthy in the midday sun.

“Would you like some?” Oberyn twists around to offer her the canteen and Sansa curls her lip.

“No.”

His voice is disappointed. “You don’t drink?”

“I don’t drink alcohol.” She says and Oberyn’s eyes shine with mirth at her precision. “I drink water. It’s cool and refreshing and doesn’t addle my smarts.”

“I’m plenty smart and refreshed.” Oberyn disagrees. “And high-spirited too.”

She stares at this man with the laughing eyes, the dangerous eyes, the eyes that make her say things she shouldn’t. He doesn’t understand, how could he possibly begin to understand? He is a man and has all the luxury that gender affords him. He does not worry about lovers and husbands and mistresses, does not get hands lingering too long on his hips and eyes flickering to his chest whenever Sansa dares to ask a question that she needs answering because she does not know, was not born to play the role she now inhabited. He doesn't know her family, her Father, her brother Robb, doesn't know how her Father used to buy her dolls even though she was past an age to enjoy them. He doesn't know at all about the last doll, battered and burnt and falling apart, that lies on her tiny bed nestled amongst her pillows like a sacred relic.

“This isn’t supposed to be fun.” Sansa’s voice shakes with anger, raw with grief. “You’re not supposed to have high spirits. People are dead.”

“And people are dying right now somewhere in the world, and people will die tomorrow and the day after and the day after forever more, and we must take the time to be high-spirited while we still can Sansa.” Oberyn tells her gravely and she sniffs, twisting in her saddle to avoid his gaze.

Sansa wishes she could share his optimistic view on life.

She watches her horse pick its way through the sun bleached grass and undergrowth, head hot and scalp burning under the sun and her mind involuntary leaps to that day, where hazy smoke rolled into the sky above and ruined the perfect blue, the perfect day. Torn to shreds, and try as she might the sky has never looked the same since, even on a day like this where there's not a cloud in sight. Sansa sighs, feeling her skin burning, and she twists her curls up atop of her head wishing she had had the sense to bring a hat. Sansa has visions of constant danger, daring gunfights and shoot-outs, not aimless wandering. Does Oberyn even know the right direction? For all they knew they could be moving further away from where Joffrey and Jaime were.

The rocking motion of her horse beneath her lulls her into a daze as the sun continues to beat down upon them, and she finds herself swigging from her canteen more and more often, sweat beading on her forehead and collecting under her arms to her dismay and disgust. She flags in this hot weather, and can think only of the mountains she grew up around, the cool clear water and the fir trees heavily laden with snow. How marvellous winter was! She misses snow, the cold pristine blanket on the ground, so pretty in its simplicity before anyone walked upon it. How it glistens when it catches the light, and her and her siblings played out for hours when they were young, making snow people and rolling balls together to throw at each other’s faces. Her reminiscing curdles sourly in the pit of her stomach and her smile dies as the grief hits her and she goes back to staring at the path ahead.

Here in Texas the great plains are flat and empty, acrid and dry, mostly sand and stone and precious else. A small amount of vegetation, trees and underbrush and a dusting of grass for animals to dive under and cool off in the heat. Trees as white and thin as bones, and lots of cacti, prickly and sharp and strange shapes decorated with large flowers of crimson and amber and always eye-catching. There are great rivers too, and huge canyons, but for large stretches of land it is just her and her companion and dust. It collects in her face, blinking into her eyes and drifting up her nose until she sneezes, thick and heavy in her hair that she eventually loosens so the curls swirl around her shoulders protecting them from sunburn. Why? Why did her Father choose to settle them here? Why had Sansa thought it a most wondrous idea? She had been a child, a stupid child with aspirations above her station and now she was paying the price. If she died here on the plains, like so many wanderers, she'd haunt this empty place forever. In death she'll be with her family, and her body will be of no use to her. Let the vultures tear the decaying flesh from her face; her prettiness has always been a problem. Sansa almost snaps her neck, she raises her head so quick when Oberyn starts to hum. He's a few paces ahead of her, his stallion prancing in a quick trot, and she knows the tune of the song if not all the words. He starts to sing, voice high and clear, possibly the only sound for miles aside from the calls of vultures above circling a few miles in the distance; in the back of her mind Sansa starts to dread what they'll find.

" _His eyes are bright, and his heart as light as the smoke on his cigarette..._ " He has a good singing voice, can hold a note well, and she can't say she's surprised. He takes another swig from his battered canteen, the dull silver catching the light. " _There's never a care for his soul to bear, no trouble to make him fret..._ " He sings lustily, enthusiastically, even as he clucks his tongue for his horse to keep its pace.

"I can see why you like this one." Sansa mutters and he laughs, teeth glinting as he turns to smile at her, yellow stained collar flapping against his neck. When he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle handsomely.

"Who has time for sad songs?"

_Me._

Sansa chases the thought away, kicking her mount into a jaunty trot watching the small clouds of dust appear beneath her. "Must we be so slow?"

"Not if you wish it." Oberyn digs his spurs into the side of his mount and plunges into a gallop that has Sansa hard-pressed to keep up with him.

The hindquarters of her horse glisten with sweat, and the mare tosses her head, mane spilling over Sansa's hands clenched tight around the reins as they cover more ground. The breeze whips around her ears now, the sound of her own heartbeat thundering, the back of her dress wet with sweat, and she kicks her horse on faster, her silk blue dress billowing around her. Her frothy white petticoats rustle against her leather saddle, leather boots slipping deeper into the stirrups and thighs clenching around her horse urging her faster, faster. You never know how much time you have left after all, and the quicker Sansa rides the quicker she will catch who they seek. Breath rattles in her windpipe, eyes watering from the breeze the speed whips around her face, the clatter of horse hooves on cracked stone and hard packed red earth making her oblivious to anything else, and there's nothing to stop her now from keeping racing, running off into the horizon never to return... she is free, as free as a bird now, travelling with the wind with no home and nobody to care about her. She coughs, a thick wet sound lost in the sound of the horses gallop, breath quick and trembling, heart fit to burst it thrums so fast, an overpowering reminder that she is alive, that her heart of all the Starks' remains beating. A curl of hair slides into the corner of her mouth and she tosses her head, wondering if she is imagining the shimmer just out of view, blinking and spotting in and out of existence as she jostles in the saddle. Sunlight flashes rainbow, and as Oberyn and Sansa gradually slow down into a trot the river becomes clearer. Sansa stares at the gushing torrents, bubbling merrily with no hint of drought despite the weather and Sansa slowly turns to look at Oberyn.

“We’re going across this?” Sansa says, failing to hide the fear in her voice. She barely recognises the emotion, she has been filled only with grief for so long. Their mounts walk forward slathered with sweat and sides heaving, clinging to the precious shade that the few trees around the scuffed banks of the river provided. 

“It’s quite shallow enough. Horses are hardy things.” Oberyn reassures her, but Sansa stares at the gushing river and despairs.

"It'll wash me away."

She is quite sure of it, how fast and thick the water flows, and her eyes follow a twig that turns and slides over the low pebbles before being battered against the sandy rocks that dot the river edge. The twig bobs up and down for a few moments before it collides with a fallen tree, its peeling white limbs twisted and gnarled, sun-bleached and heavy. The twig snaps, and Sansa turns her head to the other direction, one hand coming up to shield her gaze from the glare of the sun.

"Doesn't it get any thinner?" She asks weakly, shifting her hands awkwardly. Her horse sidesteps beneath her picking up on her unease.

"Yes, if we follow it miles out of our way. The quickest route is across here." Oberyn lowers his voice and gaze, staring her directly in the eyes. "I won't let you get swept away. I won't let you fall."

"Truly?" She questions disbelievingly. How can she trust the word of an outlaw prone to murder? What if he leaves her stranded halfway across? Or does let her get swept away, and she hits her head, and her blood blossoms out into the water as she dies. Would he leave her body to rot, be carrion to any fortunate predator? She doesn't trust him, and her knife will only protect her so far. Not in situations like this, and Sansa aches to stay in control.

"I'll help you." Oberyn leans over and grasps the halter of her horse, tucking his fingers in tight so her mare shifts over closer to him. So close their leather boots knock together and Sansa stares up at him from under her eyelashes.

"You don't have to do that." Nobody helps her now, certainly no men. They only watch her suffer in silence, and the only man who has helped her is not to be trusted, and how can Sansa trust a murderer and an outlaw with guns slung on his hips and poison hidden who knew where?

"It's too deep." She adds. "My horse will drown."

"It's not too deep, and your horse will not drown. I was under the impression you wanted to find Joffrey Baratheon and Jaime Lannister and have me murder them."

She is too much of lady to scowl, but she almost does then. Fury rising hot in her chest as she rises up out of her saddle, feet deep in the stirrups as she glares at him. He stares back without so much as a flinch, unmoved by her weak display of anger.

"I do."

She doesn't know why this outlaw stirs her to emotions she previously held under check, but she cannot pretend to be displeased. This flicker of anger warms her veins, licks at her itching hands as she tightens her horses reins, for how dare he question her intentions when she made herself perfectly clear?

"Well if we don't cross the river we shall never catch up with them will we?"

Barely has he finished his sentence and Sansa is jerking her head up and kicking her mount on without hesitation. It is now or never, and as her horse enters the water and spray hits her face, refreshingly cool, Sansa keeps her eyes pinned directly ahead at the shore, face stoic and moving not a muscle. The water bubbles up and surges around them, and her toes skim the water before dipping in as the pebbles underfoot slip unevenly, and she prays her boots shall not leak. Her horse plods on solidly, ears flicking in interest, and perhaps Sansa was wrong and her horse will not drown. The rush of running water fills her ears, droplets flecking on her ruddy cheeks and trembling on her eyelashes and she gasps when her horse stumbles beneath her, Sansa's feet plunging into the water. It's cold, refreshing cold and she shivers in equal parts shock and delight as she kicks her horse. She approaches the middle of the river with trepidation, for her horse whinnies and shakes her head when its front left leg stumbles and loses its grip on the slimy stones beneath, loose with mud from the drought that had occurred shortly before. She kicks her horse on frantically, jangling the reins as it stumbles further, and Sansa can feel the current around her, swift and strong. She dare not look back to see if Oberyn is watching her with approval or amusement.

"Go," She commands tightly, jaw clenching as she drags her legs with effort through the water to press against her horse, dripping skirts plastered to her thighs. "Go!"

She lets out a shriek when her horse obediently goes forward and Sansa is suddenly in the water up to her elbows. Oberyn is sure to be laughing now, and with a strangled moan she yanks her horse’s reins, legs flapping out creating splashes along the river when she slaps them against her horse. It does not truly matter if she dies here she suppoes, but her brothers would be mighty mad she hadn't got their revenge and it is that which spurs her on. 

"Go!" She says frantically, pulling in a haggard breath through too tight lungs. "Go, go, go!"

Oberyn told her this part was shallow, and she dares to shoot him a dark look over her shoulder barely noticing her horse swimming quite ably across. He's watching her with steadfast concentration, eyes narrowed and his hat hung loose in one hand, the other combing through his hair. His horse is prancing in the shallows, and she wonders what were to happen if she did suddenly pitch sideways and fall in. Her breathing gradually calms when she looks at the shore and realises she's closer across then she realised, and she can even appreciate her soaked clothes now. Even though they cling to her every curve, they offer refreshment from the boiling heat and she positively basks in the last few steps before her horse lurches upwards, staggering out and clamouring up the other side. Sansa dislikes horses, but she has never loved one more now she is safe on the other side and affectionate with adrenaline she presses a kiss to her horse’s wet mane and combs her fingers through it separating the strands, stroking its glistening neck. 

She is soaked, her dress limp and hair stuck to the back of her neck but she is out, out of the river, out of danger, and she sighs sweetly and allows her mare free rein to chew at the grass while watching Oberyn make his way across. Predictably he takes only a mere minute or two, his horse thrashing with delight into the water, plunging forward creating ripples all the way downstream and when he joins her he's wet too, and he wears it well. Sansa averts her gaze from his chest and weaves her fingers through her horse’s mane again.

"Are you alive and well?" Oberyn asks, a throaty laugh rolling off his lips as he settles more comfortably into his saddle.

"I'm alive," Sansa admits as they set off again, cantering up and out onto the grassy plains before them, her heavy hair whipping up behind her and tangling in the breeze. "For now."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not 100% happy with this chapter, but I've had it nearly done for ages and I wanted to post it before Christmas :)

They make camp in the shadow of a jutting slab of granite rock, still hot from the day when the temperature cools with the rising moon. The canyons ahead are shadows on the sand but a promise that Oberyn is taking her where she wants, where justice stands and death repaid. A duty to her family, that once finished will leave her with nothing to do and nowhere to go, in truth this time. She had bared her soul to Oberyn only in a last act of desperation, but even when this trek is over and the bodies of Jaime and Joffrey lay bleeding and motionless at her feet, what after? She will still be heading back to Petyr, to the punishment he no doubt shall inflict for leaving him. She shivers, curling up tighter within herself, and Oberyn looks across from the blazing fire.

“Do you need another blanket?” She shakes her head, and Oberyn nods in acknowledgement.

His face flickers a dozen shades of amber and crimson from the flames, and Sansa watches the smoke drift to the sky, the scent swirling up her nostrils, and she remembers that day so clearly, her families screams- She pulls the scratchy horse blanket up to her chin and looks away blinking hard, vision blurring and eyes stinging.

“Sansa.” A hushed whisper across the fire.

“The smoke.” Sansa tells a half-truth. “It makes my eyes sting.”

“Do you want a drink?” She shakes her head; she would trust nothing from this well-known poisoner. She’s prepared her own water canteen and will have to be equally guarded with her food around him when mealtimes came.

“I shan’t harm you, if that’s what you’re worrying about. I may be an outlaw and a murderer, but I would never harm a little girl.”

“I’m not a little girl.” She stares up through her eyelashes at him. “I’m almost twenty. I’m a woman grown.”

“Well,” He says slowly, shifting his head on the bag he laid propped against. “I don’t cause harm to woman, to children… to anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“How are you so sure I don’t deserve it?”

Silence falls between them as Oberyn mulls over his answer and Sansa’s eyebrow flickers upwards in righteousness. How did a woman who stood by and watch her family burn not deserve to have the same happen to her? Have her scalped by the Indians, have her body be used and abused by Petyr and a score more, and few would say she didn’t deserve it. She was a murderer by association, watching the flames lick the wood and singe the skin of her childhood loves and stood and did nothing. Pathetic, she was so stupid-

“If you deserved it, you wouldn’t be here, getting justice for your family. And if I thought you did, you’d already be dead.” Oberyn answers, setting his lips into a self-affirmative line like he knew about her intimately.

“So I’m supposed to trust you?” Sansa sniffs, eyebrow arching upwards again in scepticism. “How do I not know that as soon as you’ve killed Jaime and Joffrey you’ll turn on me?”

“You don’t know that.” He admits with an airy shrug of his pointy shoulders. “Life is full of the unknown. But if it reassures you, I’ll give you my word you’ll leave this unharmed.”

“It doesn’t reassure me.” She says shortly, gazing up at the night sky above. Inky black and indigo, the stars twinkling. She plays with the loose sleeve of her dress wishing it were warmer, for as unbearably hot the days were the nights were ten times more bothersome and dangerous, the cold creeping up without warning. Many a man had died on these plains from cold induced delirium, the shivers reaching down to the bone and strangling the warmth, the life of the man in its wake.

“I swear my life on it. Why would I drag you out here with me just to kill you afterwards?”

He is slow and practical in conversation, a genuine curiosity rife in his tone; but Sansa cares not one whit for his easy affability and charm and his assumption of being able to see people clearly despite the defences they wrought. He tries to talk to her like he knows her, understands her, when all he knows is how to use a gun to end life effectively.

“Why do people kill anyone?” Sansa says darkly, rolling over onto her side with her back to him, eyes closing tight. “And life means nothing to people like you.”

“You’re smart.” She’s almost fallen asleep when his voice rumbles to her ears. She blinks groggily at the compliment, her harsh whisperings in her own mind about his shadiness and shortcomings in trust and nice companionship fading. “You’re smart not to trust anyone. It’s a savage world out here, and trust will only get you killed. But I promise, if you can somehow extend a little bit of faith towards me, I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

“Why?” Sansa murmurs. “Why do you care?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She shifts upwards, brushing away mussed hair as she stares at him bewildered. So confused and taken off guard by his very idea that that he would care about her, a complete stranger, that this gives her the courage to speak the truth for once, to loosen her lips instead of trotting out lines of lies and fake smiles for anyone who inquired after her.

“Nobody else does.” She confesses slowly, tasting the words on her tongue as she wrapped her arms around her knees. “Even people who know me, and you don’t know me at all. They pretend to, but I can see in their eyes. They think I’m a nuisance, that I’m a stupid little girl with stupid dreams. They think I should have died with my family.”

 _I should have._ The thought rests heavy in her head, weighing down her brain as she stares at the fire, watching the flames lick the dry branches and twigs gathered.

“I don’t think you should have.”

The ice around her heart thaws ever so slightly, dripping with disbelief. “You don’t know me.”

“I already know you’re brave, and-”

Her disgusted snort cuts him off and Sansa stares at him. He doesn’t understand at all, she’s not brave at all. Sansa is merely surviving, her head low around Petyr’s place of work ever conscious of the fact that the girls around her could so easily be her. Oberyn is the brave one it seems, with all his legendary gunfights and poisonings. They don’t call a man the Red Viper for nothing.

“You disagree?” Oberyn says mildly, long laced fingers resting on his abdomen as he watches her with interest.

“I’m not brave.” She chokes out the words, and she can see the house looming before her, and the smoke fills her nostrils and head until she can’t breathe, can’t think- She buries her chin in the blanket she huddles tight in, her eyes peeking out straining to stay in the present and not see the house with the crumbling wooden structure, and the screams-

“I don’t think every girl would set off into unknown lands with a known killer to make sure two men are murdered.”

“Well I’m not like any other girl.” She laughs bitterly at the statement, shoulders jerking, and she finds it so hilariously funny because once she was like all the other girls in town with their expensive dresses and jewels and inane lives, concerned with nothing but finding a suitor.

Sansa had never wanted for anything, never had a hard day in her life, and oh she was so naïve, such a stupid child. Pathetic, and Sansa is now an outcast more so then ever. An orphan girl was no news, but an orphan girl set out on the road with the Red Viper? People will talk, but Sansa cannot even find the energy to care, and she lies down so weary she wishes she could sleep forever and never wake up. Let her close her eyes now and a wolf end her torment, let her be with her family once more.

“You have that right.” Oberyn agrees softly.

“I’m off to sleep now.” Sansa says loudly, and turns her back on him again fully intending to close any further conversation down. 

Her eyes peer out at the plains, and she can see a lizard skittering around nearby, tiny feet popping up and down as it searches for a meal, and her fingers curl tight on the cold hilt of her knife.

She stays awake that whole night, long after Oberyn has dozed off. She watches him, the way he slumps on the floor with his hat low on his head and one hand on the handle of his gun. She sharpens her knife on a rock, watches the fire grow dimmer and throws twigs when it threatens to extinguish, casting worried looks over her shoulder at the coyotes howls in the distance. She admires the way the sun rolls over the horizon, the blue streaks fading in and illuminating a new day, and anything could happen. He rouses himself while she’s cooking breakfast, porridge oats she stirs in a battered pan filched from the bag Oberyn hadn’t slept on and instead left nearby beside the horses. He yawns, stretching out like a cat before rubbing his face, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re up early.” He notes, slowly getting to his feet.

_Well, I never slept._

She shrugs. “I don’t sleep well these days.” Her eyes travel to his gun. “I will, after.”

She hopes.

Oberyn goes off to relieve himself, and Sansa picks up a spoon and eats straight from the pan. She has never felt wilder, with dirt under her fingernails and hair thick with sand, grubby fingers smeared with blisters. Her entire lower body aches from the riding of yesterday, and she prepares herself mentally and physically as she eats the meagre amount of porridge and they start packing again. Their night camp is extinguished within minutes, Oberyn stamping the fire to ashes while Sansa collects their possessions, and within an hour of Oberyn waking they are on the move once more.

“Do you think we’ll make the canyons today?” Sansa asks as her horse flicks a fly off its ear. She pins her eyes on her hopes, for the canyons would have proper caves for them to sleep in which at least provided more cover then their previous night.

“If we travel at a steady pace.” Oberyn estimates, nudging his mount on.

They ease into a canter, and Sansa slips and slides in the saddle slightly less than the day before. She feels covered in a layer of grime and sweat, disgusted with the stench of her own body, and when they come across a small stream barely three feet across she pulls her horse up and slips down without a word, staggering to the water and splashing it across her face. The fresh water revives her somewhat, and she sucks the droplets on her lips eagerly, eyelashes fluttering rapidly as she rubs her cheeks clean.

“Will there be more water soon?” Sansa asks hopefully. “I need to wash myself properly. Or gods save us, a town.”

Oberyn chuckles, his teeth glinting in the sun as he wheels his horse around in a large circle, staring down at her like she is prey, nothing more than a prized piece of carrion. She remembers Jeyne, remembers the hate in Joffrey's eyes when she realised she meant nothing to him and she _hates_ it, _hates_ that she fears every man that casts his gaze upon her now, _hates_ that this outlaw makes her feel that fear but also hate it, and her back crawls. Sansa refills her canteen as quick as possible and hurriedly climbs back ahorse, ignoring Oberyn’s confused glances.

She is stiff in the saddle now, her horse nickering beneath her uneasily as she kicks it on. She is a woman of stone, unfaltering in her disposition, and she will not speak to Oberyn no longer, she will not give him cause to mock or take advantage of her, to wound her with words or worse. She will not befriend him and converse when not needed, she is here only to work no more, and she can be silent. She is good at that, always an observer now. Watching Jeyne be tugged into rooms by men with hungry eyes, watching her emerge with bruises and shaken limbs, watching Petyr watching her, watching her family burn. A passive entity, a being filled with anger and bitter and despair, and is it any wonder Oberyn looks down on her like prey? She is nothing but a child pretending to be brave when truly she is scared and weak and feeble, defenceless and someone to be easily taken out if truly wanted. What would stop Oberyn? He gave her his word, and asked to give him faith, but words are fickle things and even sacred oaths can be meant at the time then later retracted, and how can she trust a sound that comes from an outlaws lips?

They ride in silence, an aching silence that leaves Sansa wishing for Oberyn to speak and relay some bit of wisdom she’ll only shrug off and scoff. She watches him expectantly but he is wise and few with his words when not roused it seems, and as she is not eager to talk herself she makes do with admiring the way he sits, tall and sure in the saddle. This outlaw of hers may be dangerous and delusional in his views of her and their… companionship? Alliance? Job? But he is certainly handsome, and if Sansa were a more wanton woman she would have given him kisses aplenty before now. Many a woman would take him to bed she would wager. Whether they lived to see him off was another matter, but he has such long hands that lightly grip and command his steed’s reins at the slightest touch she believes he would be a most gentle lover despite his fearsome reputation. Deadly in his softness, and Sansa believes that is the most deadly thing of all. Men who shout and are all harsh muscles have no subtly or wits about them, she thinks. Men who are lean and sinewy who seduce easily can tease a secret from anyone’s lips, can trickle poison into drinks without raising suspicion, can slip away unseen while more brutal men would cause a bloodbath. At least there is that, Sansa reflects. Oberyn tells her he’s never killed an innocent, and from what Jeyne had told her of the Red Viper and her own scattered knowledge, all of his victims have been men who were in trouble from the start, and nobody innocent had been killed in the act. Perhaps he talks shreds of truth then, at times. In the dead of night when nobody else will hear their whispers.

She watches him even more when she slowly filters that thought, and it buries into her brain and infects her like a seed taking root. She cannot start to think of him as trustworthy, someone who she talks to in confidence, because where will it end? A bullet in the back most likely, but she will be with her family again - so what would it matter? Say she throws caution to the wind and decides to trust this man with the fearless eyes, what then? They curl up and share warmth on the cold nights? They ride together, and she whispers into his ear sweet nothings, and he begins to want her just as she could so easily want him, what with his daring grin and grizzled cheeks and lush hair… Her own mind exhausts her, and she lists to one side sleepily too tired to think any longer, focusing her mind only on the simple want that kept her going – revenge. When Jaime and Joffrey were dead, she could be at peace. Her mind would cease its endless wandering and anxiety and she can escape and be free at last. If that doesn’t happen, she fears what will unfold. Perhaps she is already crazy, going into an outlaws house and demanding with a knife at his wrist to kill her families murderers - for free no less! She finds herself momentarily astonished by her own – spirit. Foolishness, or what was it Oberyn had called it? Brave. Bravery, and he says she’s not like any other girl… _I bet he says that to all the girls_. She would never be any man’s girl again, not ever, and a twisted smile rises on her cracked lips.

Sansa is half asleep in the saddle as they plough on, their mounts steadying into a lulling plod. Their hooves ring out on the hardy stone that signals their closeness to the red canyons, and Sansa’s eyes are so heavy, she is so warm- She shakes her head disorientedly, hands tightening on the reins. She has to stay awake, and watch the canyon- Her head is just too heavy for her neck, her eyes glued tight, and she falls sharply- A hand reaches out to stop her and she jerks her head up straight.

“I’m awake.” She announces, blinking rapidly to get the thickness out of her eyelids.

“I’ve noticed.” Oberyn says dryly. “As am I.”

Sansa’s lip twists into a half smile despite herself. “Do you hear something?”

“Apart from your snores?”

“I don’t snore.” She says absently, cocking her head. “Hush.”

He surprisingly does as she commands, pulling up beside her but she has no time to appreciate it or acknowledge any further, for she was sure she heard- She slips out of the saddle and weaves weak-kneed in a straight a line as possible towards the rock formations that only got bigger the further in they rode. The sound was coming from a cluster of fur that- She gags, holding her arm over her mouth and nose as she peers at the dead wolf. Matted grey fur covered in maggots, and she turns away sharply.

“Dead wolf.” She says weakly, eyes trailing over the ground around her before landing on the soft lump of fur emitting tiny snuffles and squeaks. “There’s a pup alive.” She calls over to Oberyn who’s stood beside the horses.

“She’s the only one left.” Sansa breathes, one trembling hand extending to softly brush against the soft grey fur of the pup.

It sniffs at her, tiny whiskers twitching before she strokes the length of its spine and it trots closer into her. She picks up the baby wolf and brings it close to her, the soft fluff on her cheeks the cutest thing she has experienced in a while. She walks over to Oberyn already in love.

“All her siblings are dead. She’ll die too if we leave her here.” Her eyes swivel up to Oberyn’s pleadingly, although she knows she isn’t going to take no for an answer. She is her own woman, Oberyn couldn’t refuse her. Sansa will feed her with her own food and water, make sure she was kept from harm.

Oberyn shrugs. “Keep her if you wish. She’ll provide better protection then even I could provide.”

“I doubt that.” Sansa murmurs. “But when she’s fully grown it won’t be a bad thing for her to be on our side.”

She fondles the wolf pup’s ears and kisses the top of her head, cradling her in her arm as she attempts to mount her horse. “Let me.” Oberyn chuckles, holding out a gallant hand, brown skin gleaming.

“Careful.” Sansa’s voice comes out as a gushy coo but she doesn’t even care, and Oberyn manoeuvres the pup from her arms to his with the utmost care.

“There.” Oberyn says in a hushed voice, as Sansa with a rustle of her skirts eases herself back into the saddle. He gives the pup one last pat before handing it back over and Sansa settles her deep into her lap, fluffing out her dress to create a shallow nest of sorts for her to sit in comfortably.

“She needs milk.” Sansa declares with a frown, angular eyebrows pulling together in distress as she looks around the canyon. “We need to find a herd of buffalos, or something.”

“And how do you propose we milk a buffalo?” Oberyn asks practically.

“I don’t know.” Sansa says desperately. “We’ll find a way. She won’t die. She won’t.”

She is quite determined that the little pup won’t be taken from her like everything else. She is so warm huddled up to her, eyes seeking to get closer and her soft nose burrows into the folds of Sansa’s dress and she can’t restrain a delighted giggle.

“I think a call to a farmhouse would be better suited to find some milk.”

“Well I see no farm or house nearby.” Sansa counters with a snipe, his cool logic getting under her skin once more.

“Well you have not travelled here like I.” He says mysteriously and Sansa turns to look at him.

“There’s somewhere near?” She asks, voice trembling on the edge of hope.

“A few miles.”

“And we can get milk for the pup? And other supplies?”

“We could.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. _Could?_ Could was worlds apart from definitely, yes, of course.

“Let me guess you seduced the poor man’s wife.” She grumbles under her breath and flushes when Oberyn laughs. It rankles her that careless laugh, the way it makes her shiver.

“Is that what you think? No.”

They walk on for a few minutes and Sansa mulls over speculation in her mind, shooting him furtive glances.

“You killed the owner in a gruesome duel.” She declares. “A gunfight that ended badly for him.” She guesses.

His lips twist upwards. “No.”

Sansa frowns. What other dastardly deeds could Oberyn have done? _Plenty._

“You got drunk and offended him.”

“Who said the owner was a man?”

“Her then. You offended her.”

“What if I said they offended me?”

“I find that hard to believe.” Sansa admits. “But I suppose it could be possible.”

They mosey on, Sansa looking over at Oberyn with furtive speculation. How does one offend an outlaw and still live to tell the tale? It must be a woman or a child then, for Oberyn said he didn’t hurt innocents, but why would he be so reluctant to visit? He pulls his stallion up to a standstill at the crest of rock, and Sansa peers down at the valley below where a tiny shack stands. Hardly a fearsome thing, lopsided and falling apart and Sansa squints up at Oberyn confused. His jaw is tight, hands curled tight around the short reins of his horse.

“Well as you’re so stubborn I shall go myself.” Sansa declares in the silence, and she nudges her horse down the twining path that skirted the face of the rolling hill.

“I never said I was going to call on them - and I am well versed in manners as you know.” He has the grace to sound insulted.

“I wager I’ll scare him less and get served more.” She calls over her shoulder, her left elbow knocking and brushing against the sandy rock, the bumps making her wince and most likely by the time she was finished with all of this her skin will be red raw.

"Sansa  _don't_." Is that a hint of panic in his tone? She doesn't care, men don't order her around anymore. 

She looks back only once to see Oberyn staring at her, lips pressed together thinly. His hair flutters about his neck, his eyebrows pulled together in a scowl. Fine, if he were to be so grumpy Sansa would not waste any more of her thoughts on him. When the ground levels she dismounts with stiff limbs, tying her horses reins around a tree branch and slowly walks forward. Her stomach is all knots, her hands tight around the wolf in her arms, and she fumbles to pick up her skirts and cross the front porch, boots creaking on the half-rotten floor.

“Hello?” She asks cautiously, running her tongue along her top teeth. “Is anyone here?”

She peers through a dusty window nervously, trying to discern the shapes that loomed before her but she can’t tell through the thick layer of cobwebs. She sighs, and stomps her feet as she walks to the other side of the porch, boots ringing out.

“Please Sir I need help!” Her eyes are large with distress, bottom lip trembling, when she hears a slow shuffle and steels herself. He appears out of the shadow with a large gun pointed at her chest and she gulps.

“Please Sir.” She repeats, and a red curl falls in front of her eyes she daren’t reach up and push back. She gazes at him appealingly, big blue eyes watery and lips pouted. “You look like a good man. If it is no bother I would dearly love a small pint of milk for my wolf.”

“Good man?” He snorts. His voice is rasping, thick, and a goblet of spit lands near Sansa’s foot she tries not to react poorly to.

“Yes.” Sansa says firmly, and her eyelashes flutter as her lips tilt up into a charming smile. “You could have shot me at the first, but I’m still here speaking.”

The man grunts at her, shifting his weight across the half rotten wood that emits such a loud creak Sansa fears he'll fall straight through.

“I shall be no trouble to you, I shall not linger. If I can just appeal to your kind heart for a tiny bit of milk for my wolf… a maiden needs a protector these days.” She sniffs. “Terrible things have happened Sir.”

He steps into the light and Sansa tries not to flinch with surprise. The man before her is huge, she was expecting that. He is all brawn and muscle, thick dark hair that coats his body like a second skin and a face that is not accustomed to smiling, she thinks. What Sansa does not expect is the huge ugly burn scars that dominate the man’s face and her lips part in sympathy.

“I see terrible things have happened to you too.” She observes, and the man thrusts the gun forward. She flinches, but continues talking slow and smooth and calm even as her heart thrums too fast. “For you live here in the middle of nowhere with no family or friends or even neighbours.”

“A girl like you shouldn’t be here alone.” He snarls at her and she steps back at his sudden hostility, even when he kicks the door open and waves her in.

She pauses and he looks at her, face scrunched up and eyes burning into hers. 

“Well?” He demands gruffly. “You want some milk or not?”

She trails into his house warily, clutching the pup so close to her chest she growls deep in her throat. Perhaps she was just picking up on the tension that filled Sansa's body as she stares at the huge man before her. As huge as a mountain, and he could so very easily snap her neck... but he hasn't shot her yet when given the chance, and she has to believe he won't ambush her. She casts a look behind her but Oberyn has gone and she swallows thickly as the door creaks shut behind her. The interior of the shack is little better then the outside, with a battered table and stove to one side with a busted sink. There's a sagging bed to one side, with a threadbare blanket thrown haphazardly across the floor and Sansa assumes she woke him from a slumber. A _deep_ slumber, when she sniffs stale alcohol in the air. No wonder his eyes are bloodshot, his hair a mad tangle. 

"Put her down." He rasps, and Sansa hesitantly places her wolf on the table. She stands on wavering legs and looks up at her curiously, and seems to take to the man instantly, licking his rough hand when he examines her. For such big hands he moves them delicately, gently brushing down her body and Sansa eases into her seat somewhat, one foot dragging back and forth across the floorboards.  

“Too old for milk. Already weaned.” He tells her shortly a while later, leaning back in his chair and folding back those huge arms of his. The pup sniffs at his hand bright-eyed and bold before scampering back across the table to Sansa, tiny claws clattering across and scratching the worn wood already marred with suspicious looking dents and what _looked_ like dried blood.  

“Oh.” Sansa says timidly. “Then- I should go. I apologise for wasting your time." 

"Didn't waste my time." He grunts. "Ain't got much to waste time with around here anyways." 

"Are there no neighbours nearby? Perhaps you go into the nearest town and-"

"I don't get many pretty girls around here." His voice could be a leer, but his eyes are sad and stare at her with knowing and Sansa scoops her wolf back into her arms with haste, terror swirling in her stomach and mouth dry. 

"They tend to die off quickly."  

Sansa stares at him uneasily, fighting the urge to widen her eyes in mounting terror for his words speak of murder but his eyes are full of sorrow and sadness and Sansa cannot believe he did not once know a girl who had died quickly in the plains.

Her skin is clammy and cold, goosebumps prickling her neck as she stares across at him, eyes glued to his watching every movement. She barely breathes the words, but they slip through her quivering lips all the same. 

"Have you seen it happen?"

"Many times." He growls, kicking back his chair and limping across to glare out of the window. Sansa wonders if Oberyn is still out there, or if he's abandoned her to this foolish quest after all. Maybe she should have listened to him, for he was clearly wiser and more knowledgeable then her. The man here has issues and regrets clearly, things she does not wish to discover. _Why did he let her go?_ Why does she feel dissapointment swirling in her gut, even as this man scares her so? 

He whirls back and Sansa rears back. 

"Could you not stop it?" Sansa squeaks, and she trips backwards. She is a stupid girl after all, and it was a mistake to come here, Oberyn was right- 

Her head slams back with a crack and spots dance before her eyes. She huffs out a dizzy gasp, and he is pressing her tight against one crooked wall, his arms strong on her shoulders. Her throat constricts wildly, stretched taunt, heart fluttering as fast as a hummingbirds wings in terror. Is this why Oberyn dared not to come? This man was _competition?_  Then why would he- her thoughts spin nauseously, disorientedly, and tears spring to her eyes even as her wolf scrabbles at her feet yapping, clawing at her ankles from where she had tumbled unceromoniously to the floor, claws ripping Sansa's dress. 

"I  _try._ " He spits, and his fist punches the wall next to her head. She gasps noisily as his lip quivers, and her stomach lurches with fear. She wants to pray, but the Gods never listen to her. "But girls never listen. You won't will you?" He snarls and shakes her and she whimpers as her head lolls back and forth like a rag doll. 

"Please-" 

 _Please kill me? Please spare me?_ Even Sansa doesn't know the end of the sentence that splutters from her, and what did it matter? She is so tired. Perhaps this is the world's way of righting things. Perhaps all along she was to be burnt in the house with her family and every day since has only been delaying the inevitable. She will never get justice for her family but she will be with them again and that will be enough. She hopes it will be enough.

"I'm not afraid to die." Sansa whispers hoarsely, damp eyelashes sticking together as she blinks rapidly to clear her vision. He stinks of smoke and dog and booze, and if this is the last sight Sansa is to see on Earth at least it was not her burning Mother, her Father laid with his brains spilling out- it was all  _her_ fault, everything that happened was because of  _her-_

"Kill me." The words come out as a taunting goad and she pushes herself into him with a surge of desire, wriggling her slim body against his burly chest. "Go on. Do it." 

And he can't, and they both know it, and maybe that's why she pushes him because there's an ugly part of her cracked open and bleeding and wanting to be put down out of misery. 

"Do it!"

His face roils and convulses with the war raging in his head, the burnt remains of one cheek dangling loose and lopsidedly down one side as his mouth curls into a snarl, head twisting back and forth, foul whiskey scented breath making Sansa's stomach turn. 

"I-" He drags in a gulping breath, eyes wide. "I-"

"I know you won't hurt me." Sansa says thickly, tears of annoyance and assurance blooming in her eyes, chest heaving for more oxygen in the flurry of emotions that besige her. Anger and grief and terror, relief and sorrow and pain. "If you were going to kill me you would have done it the moment I approached. You'd have blown my brains out before I even spoke."

Her Father, the gunshot, the  _screams-_

She breathes heavily, tears trickling down her cheeks and they are  _both_ crying, this strange fellow and her. Her trembling fingers slowly wriggle up to touch his scarred flesh, and his breath quivers hot on her palm and her head aches brutally painful, blood dripping down her collar but she cannot find herself to be mad at this shell of a man. She cannot even be scared of his fit of bravado towards her now, for he pulls away as quickly as he grabbed her, leaving her half collapsed sagging against the wall, shivering and silent.

"That was a warning." He chokes, massive hands envoloping his head as he sinks back down on his chair, curled in with despair.

Sansa is numb to the emotions that seized her so now, and she scoops her wolf up woodenly and stumbles away, past him, past the broken man in the house falling down around him. Adrenaline pounds in her veins, and she lurches over the cracked ground, breath ragged. She trips past broken shards from half-blasted liquor bottles, the glass catching the sunlight and making her vision swirl disorientedly, and 

She was alive. How was she still alive?  _How?_ After all the people and situations she has encountered, why does the world see fit to spare her and not her family? 

“Are you alright?”

She chokes on a shriek of surprise and steps back, staring up at Oberyn wide-eyed and trembling. 

"I thought you  _left_!" She yells, and her voice pitches and wavers on the edge of tears. 

“I was keeping watch in case anything bad happened. Did it?” His hands hover above her shoulders, eyes focused on her with such intensity it makes her flush despite her ordeal.

"What do you think?" She replies acidly, swiping angrily at her wet eyes with one trembling hand.

"Sansa I was nearby."

"I didn't see you."

"Because the man in there is not as dangerous as his brother." His mouth flattens in distaste, and he sneers at the house. "I knew he'd lash out but he doesn't hurt anyone unless he's told to."

Sansa rubs her aching head because he doesn't make sense talking cryptically, and she cannot even get angry at him truly for he had warned her had he not? She sniffs weakly, cradling Lady close to her and she licks at her chin with a rough tongue. Sansa suddenly craves her warmth, her innocence, and she is just a babe needing protecting-

"Can we just go?" Sansa sniffs miserably. “Lady doesn’t need any milk, she’s already weaned." 

Oberyn nods, jaw tight and thumb pressed lightly on the trigger of his gun pressed to one hip. They walk silently in step to Sansa's horse stood placid nearby, one ear lazily flicking away flies. 

"You were right." Her voice is thick, with tears, with betrayal. "I was wrong, and stupid." Will she ever learn?

"He clearly has a- a _temper._  What did he do to you?"

"What did he do to you?" Oberyn counters her so quickly she barely has time to blink, hand snatching her reins and body angling into hers. Sansa steps backwards, eyeing him for a long moment in discord. His jaw juts out and his eyes are narrowed in anger, dark lashes brushing his grizzled cheeks. 

Sansa summons up the remnants of her dignity after her foolish fall from grace, and how pathetic she had been to believe she could walk into a strangers house and charm them without coming to harm? The plains are no place for a girl like her, hadn't he said so? The South brought only trouble and despair and death to Sansa, and continues to do so even though she's the sole survivor. 

“When you want to tell me, I’ll listen. I won’t tell nobody else either. I’m to be trusted.”

“When you return the favour in trust maybe.” Oberyn passes her the reins and turns away as she mounts. Friction is thick between them, a thick and pressing atmosphere that makes Sansa's chest tighten. 

“As you wish.” She says cordially, and sorts her skirts before harshly kicking her mount away.

Her head still throbs with every hit of her horse's hooves on the floor, but she believes the blood to have stopped flowing at least. Thank the gods, for what if she collapsed? Oberyn would most like leave her behind. What sort of man would do such a thing to a young girl? 

_Every man._

Sansa was starting to believe men were perhaps different, but he just reaffirms her suspicions that deep down all are bad no matter how guilty they feel. Oberyn - Oberyn was the  _Red Viper;_ he had murdered people too. Perhaps girls her age - she was not a child. He had told her he had killed no innocents, but Sansa wasn't an innocent was she? She got her Father killed, her entire family killed...

What if the man had killed her back there? What would Oberyn do? Leave her body to decompose on the dusty floorboards? Put a bullet through the brain of the pain-addled brute and be on his way? Would he continue hunting the Lannister's or be off tethered to nothing or no one? Moving with the breeze, a new day unfolding with a dozen different choices with no repercussions. How nice it must be to be him, knowing that nobody dares try to kill him - and if they do they regret it when the barrel of his gun presses against their skull. Her Father's brains splattered on the floor, glistening in the sun and Sansa's shrieks, Joffrey's cruel laughter- Her heart squeezes in pain, and she is so fraught from the day, so many emotions swirling amongst her it is almost a relief to spy the dead body. 

Almost. 

He's hidden behind a piece of overgrown brush not flattened by horse or buffalo or man. One boot sticks out crookedly, mockingly, as if to fell whoever next travels past. Calling out to be noticed. The grass around him is flattened and stained red, flies buzzing and the  _smell-_

She lets out a choked sob for was everything just terror and pain and death? The good parts only fleeting, the bad everlasting? Gunshots have riddled the poor man's body to shreds, and so strange how she thought of him as a body, a  _corpse,_ when only a short while ago he had been a person with a name and a life and a family, hates and desires and hopes. 

Oberyn is already shrugging, head twisting back to gaze at the land ahead of them but Sansa is pulling tight at her mare's reins, slipping from the saddle to lurch across to the dead man. 

"What are you doing?" 

When she walks closer she sees his partner, curled up in a ball. Her hair is a shocking mass of limp locks and splattered brain matter, hollow eyes gazing at Sansa in mute appeal. Sansa wants to vomit, to weep in despair for the couple. Instead she grits her teeth and inches forward, placing Lady on the ground as she waves flies away. If she doesn't act fast bigger prey will arrive, and it would just be her luck to be eaten alive.

"Sansa." Oberyn's voice is rough as she slowly, softly, pulls the upturned skirts of the woman down. She laces her boots back up too, and makes sure she's prim and proper. 

Perhaps she's lost her mind. Morbid, to move and mold dead bodies, try to drag their lifeless limbs away from their death sites. Oberyn steps in to help her, when she's gasping red cheeked to pull the heavy man away. He leaves a blood trail that Lady trots in while following, and after a few feet Sansa drops her arm with a groan and wipes her sweaty forehead.  

"We should bury them." Sansa speaks out into the silence.  

"You can't bury every person out here."

"I know." Sansa says, and starts to scrabble at the ground with her fingernails.

Oberyn gives in with a sigh and it takes a while, sifting through sand to dig handfuls up. It is a shallow grave at best, and there's a noticable mound in the earth when they've finally flicked the dirt back over, but at least they're protected from being an animals meal. Their souls can rest in as much peace as possible, and Sansa flicks a curl out of her eyes and rubs her clammy skin as a cool breeze skitters across her skin. 

"Do you want me to to do the same to you, if you die?" Oberyn murmurs, skin dappled silver as the moon rises into the sky above them. 

"No." Sansa whispers into the night air, hands tightening into fists, nails biting into her palms. "I'll deserve whatever happens." 

That night they eat their meal with dried blood still stuck in the cracks under their fingernails. 


End file.
